Eye of the Beholder
by Idday
Summary: Two young people are on their way to falling in love, because beauty lies in the eye of the beholder. T for adult themes and mild language.
1. Overrated

**I know I hate to read author's notes, so if you bear with me here you will probably never hear from me again.**

**This story does not involve the characters from the TV show, but the inspiration came from hearing about Ziva's world, so this seemed the best place to post. The characters are completely my own, unless you recognize them or they are otherwise mentioned. This story is purposfully kept ambigious, but hopefully it is still clear. If it is not, I would love to know that, to hopefully clear up problems in the future or answer your questions. These characters are named, but I have yet to decide if or when I will reveal these. I wrote this assuming they are both sixteen or seventeen, which sounds very young, but at this age they wouldn't necessarly have to be in school if they had graduated early, but are too young to be in the army or Mossad, meaning that any fieldwork they had done would be illegal and unauthorized, more like training activities.**

**On a more personal note, while keeping my identity safe I will say that I am a student, and my ability to write fluctuates with homework and other things. I tend to write when the mood strikes and post almost immediatly, with very little rewriting, meaning that updates will probably be sporadic at best. This also means that, while I greatly appreciate feedback of any kind, content or numbers of reviews will neither prompt me to release chapters faster or hold them back. Almost as soon as I write it, you will read it. This story was originally written in the second person, but I have changed it to fufill the site's guidelines, and I apologize for any mistakes I have missed.**

**I do not own characters that are familiar to you or any affiliations with NCIS.**

**Sorry to take up your time with this long note, and happy reading!**

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"What are you doing here?"

The question is implied, but she's not angry, or surprised. She knew he'd be here, and she started her sentence before she ever turned to look at him. And her eyes are a bright, glistening green, rimmed by red, because she's been crying in a dark corner where nobody would see, nobody would know. But he's always known.

"I thought you could use a friend."

Friend. Friend. They're friends. And nothing more. Because all those nights she spent in his bed back home, where nothing happened but sly glances and awkward silences, those were the kind of nights friends always share.

Her eyes skim him quickly, calculating. They both do this, every time they look at someone. Evaluate threats, plan attacks. Never be taken off guard. Even friends are enemies, in their world. And her eyes widen slightly at his bare chest, at his shirt and jeans discarded on her floor, because she has always liked heat and her room is about ninety degrees and he was sweating on her bed in his clothes. Nobody else would notice the widened eyes, or the slight, sudden intake of breath. Nobody but a professional. Nobody but him. And her eyes dilate, the olive becoming emerald, and this time his breath catches in his throat. And she notices, like he did, but they both pretend they didn't. Except for her slight smirk, neither one of them noticed the obvious signs of attraction. Because friends aren't attracted to one another.

"I'm fine."

But all lies must have a grain of truth in them, and hers is so blatant, an amateur would have known she is lying. But he pretends she's not, he lets it slide. They don't talk about things like this. Except then she does.

"She never loved me."

Her tone isn't sad, or angry. She has accepted this truth long ago, and it comes as a surprise to him, even though it shouldn't. He had known her mother, seen the benign neglect. The missed birthdays, the months on end she spent at his house because her mother was on a business trip that had everything to do with business, but perhaps not the kind that is common anywhere else in the world. Guns instead of briefcases, case files instead of academic papers.

She is still standing by the door, glued there by the force of her words.

"But… I had always thought it was because of my father. Because she had no choice in the matter. Because I am a child of rape. But that's not true, is it?"

Now she's asking, unsure.

"She wasn't raped. She seduced him, whoever he is. Because she wanted a child, but only if it was a boy. And I'm a girl. And that's why she hates me."

She takes a deep breath and moves on, and he can tell that the tears are staying back by sheer will.

"She wanted a boy for Israel. To defend it, to become Mossad and protect it. But I have tried! I have tried to be that boy! I have trained as hard as any boy! I am as good as any boy! Just not good enough for her."

She is shaking now, but her voice stays steady, until she speaks again.

"And now she is gone. And I was never good enough for her."

She leaves the door, turns to look at herself in the mirror as if searching for an answer buried somewhere in her reflection. When she turns back to him, her tears are gone, buried by anger, and an impenetrable wall of strength. And she doesn't cry, because tears are weakness, but her voice cracks and suddenly she sounds small and weak, like a young child.

"Will you stay with me?"

And he doesn't speak, doesn't move, but he's there, and she has her answer.

She turns her back to him, and peels off her pants, but turning around doesn't do much for her modesty. And he knows he shouldn't be looking, but her legs are long and pale, and her shirt doesn't cover her underwear like it's supposed too. Her panties are black and lacy, and somehow that surprises him. She seems like she should be wearing men's boxers, she is always wearing his clothes or buying men's items for herself, but those couldn't be more feminine. And then she is pulling her shirt over her head, and it is impossible to look away. She walks toward him, clad only in her underthings, and he wonders at her purpose, but then she leans down and plucks his shirt off the floor and pulls it over her head. And in one swift movement, her bra is on the floor and he realizes that they are both very close to naked and he is going to share a bed with this creature that he's not supposed to find beautiful, because they're friends. But his shirt barely covers her panties, and he can still see the lace, and the soft curve of her breast is pushing against the cotton, and that article of clothing has never looked so good on anybody.

He immediately halts his train of thought, because she is vulnerable and she has lost too much, and she is his friend. And he watches her swift, graceful movements as she reaches behind her head and quickly braids her dark hair, and he can almost forget about her newly discovered beauty. Because beauty does lie in the eye of the beholder and he's never looked at her this way before. But then she shuts off the lights, and in the darkness he sees her crawl into bed beside him and suddenly he feels her bare leg against his and her skin is soft and warm. She yawns like a kitten and rests her head on his shoulder, bringing her whole torso flush against his, which isn't helping with the friend thing. And her hair smells like jasmine, but his shirt smells of him, and he has a sudden flashing vision of her writhing beneath him, wearing nothing but the Star of David necklace he gave her, and he takes a deep breath and wills his body not to betray him, and apparently she doesn't notice, because a moment later her body relaxes and her breathing evens out. All that lies between them is a thin layer of cotton, and he has never liked that shirt much and now his life is much more difficult because of it.

And he tries to nod off to sleep himself, but her leg is nestled between his and she is clutching him tightly, and the gentle swell of her breast is pressed up against his side and her head rests over his heart, and this is going to be a very long night for him, and maybe she'll never be his friend again.

And suddenly she breaths his name in her sleep, and smiles softly as she burrows her head up under his chin, and when he does fall asleep, he dreams of her and that damn Star of David, the one with sapphires and diamonds, the colors of Israel, that he placed around her neck and told her it wasn't new, it was his grandmothers, and she smiled and said that was better anyway, but in his dream it isn't hidden by her shirt (or his, as the case may be) but rising and falling on her chest as she dozes after they've done more than sleep. And he smiles too, and holds her tighter, because friends are overrated.


	2. Dream

She doesn't open her eyes when she wakes up, because her other senses are in overload and she needs a while to figure it all out.

She smells the desert, not as it actually is, but as he always smelled. And some say the desert doesn't have a scent but she knows it does because that's what he's always smelled like.

She hears a gentle, even thrumming against her ear, and soon enough she surmises it's a heartbeat, and those two facts would lead her to believe that she's sleeping with him, or rather on him, but that doesn't seem possible to her because he's in America and she's in Israel, but then she remembers that they're both in America. Then she remembers last night, her mother and his comfort, and despite everything she's glad she's here, where people can grieve, and not home where she would probably blow something up rather than go to sleep.

She feels more rested than she has in months. More precisely, she feels more rested than she has since he first left for America, four months ago. As cliché as it sounds, she hasn't been sleeping well without him in bed beside her, because he has always been her lullaby. She feels his skin beneath her ear, and torso, and whole body, really, and she realizes just how bare they both are, but he's warm and solid and he's holding her like something infinitely precious, in a way she's never been held, and she can't bring herself to care.

And then she finally opens her eyes and everything snaps into focus. Her necklace was resting on his chest, but as she rolls over it falls back onto hers, and it is skin warmed and silvery in the light of dawn. She looks at him like perhaps she never has before, and she realizes that he's beautiful.

Somehow, she's never looked Jewish; she's pale and green-eyed, only her dark hair showing her heritage. He looks like their people though, and his rich coloring looks even darker against her pale skin and her crisp white sheets. Smooth, tan skin, nearly black hair, curls sleep tossed and tousled, and she knows that if he opened his eyes right now they'd be the exact color of coffee.

Her eyes roam over his bare torso, his broad shoulders and arms defined by the years of unauthorized fieldwork the two of them have done together. He has scars, as does she, but his show better up against his darker skin. He has fifty-four, she thinks, and she knows how he got every one of them. The crescent across his abdomen; a knife fight in Cairo. The diamond on his side; shrapnel from the bomb that he dragged her unconscious body away from seconds before it went off. The raised, almost perfect circle on his shoulder… the bullet that was meant for her. She runs her fingers over this one, it's smooth and raised in the way of all scars and she remembers their conversation after they dug it out of him.

"That's going to scar", she had remarked, looking at the stitches.

He had grinned. "I thought scars were sexy."

"If you were any sexier, you'd be a threat to national security," she joked, but suddenly it wasn't funny, and there was that look in his eyes, the same one as when he had looked at her bare legs and lacy panties last night, and he was almost pinning her up against the wall, which she should have minded but didn't at all, and it took three nurses to drag him back to his hospital bed.

And suddenly she recognizes that look for what it is, and she realizes that she was probably wearing one similar to it when she walked in her room last night. Because she had assumed he'd be there, but she didn't think he would be half naked, and it was a shock, but not an entirely unpleasant one.

She had been toeing the line of friendship last night, both of them had, from his stripping to hers, and she put his shirt on for the scent and for the comfort and the convenience but somehow she knew what his reaction would be and she had wanted to see it. And even though she fell asleep almost immediately, her subconscious must have known because she dreamt of him all night and some of the things they had done together were not exactly for the good of Israel, but for the good of them.

She toes the line once again when she reaches up to press a kiss to the bullet wound that should have been hers, and he jolts awake and she was wrong, today his eyes are chocolate because they have warmth that only she's ever seen. He blinks sleepily at her and smiles softly and pulls her back into his warm embrace, and she thinks that this isn't a bad way to spend the morning.


	3. Relief

When he walks down the hall towards her, her mouth smiles as if it's a reflex to smile when she sees him, but her mind catches up to her body quickly and soon she is scowling at him and he is more afraid than when she pulls her gun.

When he tells her he needs to talk to her, she snarls;

"Why? I am not blonde, or perky. And I have never worn a cheerleading uniform or false eyelashes."

He waits for her to say more but it would seem that she is finished with him, as she turns and stomps down the hallway.

And he's tempted to make a 'time of the month' joke, but he knows for a fact that she has at least three weapons on her person, more if she's wearing the bra with the built in razor blade, so he follows after her and tries to soothe her feelings. Of course, that works about as well as explaining the logic behind not throwing a tantrum to a three year old.

Because he loves her, he really does, and she's his oldest friend, but her moods are dangerous (literally) and she has the annoying trait of being able to back up any argument, no matter how dumb, with irrefutable logic, plus she's about as stubborn as a pit bull with a bone, and once she decides that she's angry about something, there is no changing her mind, no matter how foolish the argument is.

"What's that supposed to mean?" He asks.

She whirls around, and her hand comes up to her hip, which might make anyone else look like an impetuous teenager, but her knife is right under her fingertips, and putting her hand there is much more than a symbolic gesture.

"You know damn well what it means." Except in Greek that sounds even worse. She switches back to English to yell some more. "Juliet shows up, and suddenly I'm not good enough anymore?"

"This is about Juliet? I was merely being kind to her."

She snorts and rolls her eyes. "She looked like she was ready to jump you."

"How is that my fault?" he protests, and suddenly her shoulders slump and the fight drains out of her.

"It is not," she admits quietly. "But… I guess I was jealous." He understands, he feels the same way whenever he sees her talking to some other guy, even though the two of them have no claim on each other, the kind of jealousy a toddler has when somebody steals their toy, the kind that comes from the threat of losing a good friend.

Suddenly, this whole topic is much bigger than a cheerleader and her flirtations, much bigger than petty jealousy. She looks like she's about to cry, even though she won't.

"Don't you see?" she says, her voice staying quiet and even, "she has everything. Everything I have ever wanted. Her parents love her. She had a happy childhood. She went to school, and made friends, and went to dances, and went on dates that did not involve wearing a wire or blowing things up. She has everything I want and I hate her for it. And now she has you. And I have nothing left." She drops her hand from her knife in a gesture of defeat.

"She does not have me."

She laughs softly. "I know. I am an idiot. I have no right to feel this way."

He seizes her by the shoulders suddenly, pins her against the wall and speaks urgently. "You have every right to feel that way. Your life has not been fair. But you are not going to lose me."

"She is perfect. She is named after one of literature's most loved characters, for God's sake!"

"She means nothing to me. I have known her for three hours; I have known you my entire life. You are my oldest friend. We have history and stories and a life together that I can never have with her."

She still looks unbelieving, so he takes a deep breath and starts in. "She cannot take down international terrorists with half as much style as you. She does not look half so good with a gun. You are snarky and tough and perfect, and I love you." Her eyes widen and he quickly modifies, "like I would a sister." He laughs softly. "I do not care that Juliet is blonde. Lately, I have come to appreciate a darker beauty." He brushes a strand of her dark hair behind her ear, and she smiles, softly.

"Thank you." And when she looks up to breathe this, her mouth is centimeters from his, and he realizes that he has a volatile and dangerous, but perfectly lovable, young ninja assassin pinned to the wall, bodies flush together, and he quickly backs off. She laughs at this and says something in Russian that he is glad no one else understands, and he breathes a sigh of relief when he realizes that she's back, and better than ever.


	4. Grateful

He's never seen her in a skirt before. He's seen her in ball gowns, in cargos, in jeans, and pajamas, but he's never seen her in a skirt before. Somehow, she still doesn't look completely feminine, as one usually does in a skirt. She's wearing it with strappy sandals, also unusual, but she's also wearing his shirt (again) and the very practical but very masculine jacket she usually uses for field work, which, now that he thinks about it, was probably his too, at one time or another. It fits her well, and the last time he was that size, he was twelve, so it must have been a while ago, and she probably commandeered it before he even wore it.

He can't recall the number of his things she's stolen over the years, but he guesses her closet is about half filled with men's items, and ninety-five percent of that half are his. They have an unspoken agreement; if she can get it away from him, she can have it, and she wins their frequent playful spars about half the time, which is more than she should for the sake of his wardrobe. Her hair is French braided down the back, like normal, but instead of being tucked up and under, she's left it swinging loose down her back. Her hair has gotten long, he realizes, and the tail of her braid swishes in unison with her skirt.

As he walks with her into the bright sunlight, she reaches over and snatches the sunglasses dangling between his fingers and plants them on her face. Rather than fight her for them on a public street, he just sighs as she smirks and gazes innocently up at him through the aviator's lenses, but he realizes that he has the advantage, clothing wise, because it's hard to fight in a skirt. He suspects that's the reason she doesn't frequently wear them. She places her hand in the crook of his elbow, like he's escorting her to a ball, and strolls down the street with him like she hasn't a care in the world, like he's not going to jump her for those glasses as soon as he gets the chance.

She looks rather odd, her bottom half feminine and frilly and her top half looking like her usual ass-kicking self. His sunglasses look huge and dark on her face, but somehow they fit there, and he realizes that even if he wins this fight he's going to let her have them anyway.

Her fingers press into his biceps rhythmically, Morse code, and he stops thinking about the way she looks and focuses on her message. _Your two o' clock_. He looks at her, rather than in the indicated direction, staying discreet, but in the mirrored lenses of her glasses, he sees their targets. Now it's him that is smirking, because he knew that they were coming out here together.

"Mission accomplished," he breathes in her ear, and he thinks he sees her shiver slightly at the warmth.

He pulls her into an empty building, picking the lock of a restaurant that isn't open this early in the day, and pins her against the wall, pulling off her glasses. Her eyes are huge and dark, the green sparking in the dim light. She leans in slightly, and he realizes how this might seem to her. He quickly sets her straight.

"Fork them over," he says, referring to the sunglasses in his hand. She laughs and shakes her head, and he sets the glasses aside so they won't get broken in the scuffle that's about to ensue. She waits for him to turn back to her before charging.

He's not quite sure what exactly happens next, but they're evenly matched and it's a long fight. Finally he straddles her, pins her hands to the floor and calls his win. She agrees reluctantly, but in a quick flash of movement, she's flipped them and now she's sitting across his hips with her legs spread and her skirt is not exactly where it's supposed to be, and when he grabs her hips, his large hands are resting on bare... he would say thigh, except he suspects it's too high even for that and he realizes that for all intents and purposes he is cradling her bottom with his hands. She doesn't seem to notice as she leans forward, and whispers, "I still want the glasses."

He sits up slowly, moving one hand to a more socially acceptable position on her lower back and one to cradle her head as he brings their upper bodies together.

"They look better on you anyway." His retort is almost inaudible, but they're only inches apart and her smile is confirmation that she heard it.

She suddenly wraps both her arms and her legs tightly around him, burying her face in his neck and breathing in deeply. He hears her mumble her thanks, and tell him it was a good fight, but all he can concentrate on is the way her breath feels against his throat as she whispers this, and the way she is perched in his lap with her legs wrapped around him, and nothing is between them except his jeans and her panties. He moves his hands back down to her legs, but as soon as they're there he doesn't unwrap her legs from him like he originally intended. Instead he moves his hands up higher and higher until he's cradling her ass again and he feels her shudder against him, and her sudden exhalation as she feels his rough hands on her smooth skin. She raises her head and gazes into his eyes, and they're both moving closer and closer and he can almost taste her against his lips, but her kiss doesn't land where it's supposed too, it lands on his cheek instead, lingering, her lips moving against his cheek, turning a chaste kiss into something far more sensuous. She pulls back, hesitating a moment before climbing up and extending a hand for him and grabbing the glasses from the table.

She locks the door behind them, and no one on the street would know that anything was amiss. He reaches down to adjust her skirt, which is still riding higher than it should, but she slaps his hand away and does it herself. He doesn't quite know if he's glad she stopped that kiss or not, but she still has his hand, and she laces her fingers through it now, keeping the cover of being his girlfriend. Cover or not, though, she holds his hand tighter than necessary and leans against him a little, subconsciously seeking support, and even with the aborted kiss, he has a lot to be grateful for.


	5. Culmination

_This time when he enters the room, he doesn't hesitate to approach her. She turns just as he meets her in the middle of the room, and he wraps his arms around her and pulls her into a hug. She's questioning, not knowing what's come over him and when she pulls back, he kisses her. After her initial shock, she's kissing him back, like he always knew she would. He feels her heart hammering hard against his, beating together, and she is soft and warm in his arms, and she tastes just like he always knew she would. He can't remember a time when he's ever been happier._

He opens his eyes with a start, realizing he's been dreaming again. She's nestled close against his side, oblivious to his trauma. Her breathing is deep and even, and he spends three minutes just staring down at her sleeping face. Her bare legs are tangled with his, she's only wearing a t-shirt again, and her necklace is resting on his chest, casting a star-shaped shadow. Her head rests on his shoulder, her breath tickles his chest, and her thick braid falls over his bicep. Without waking her, he reaches over with the other hand and unravels it. Her dark hair falls over her face and his chest and arms, silky smooth and cool. He shifts his body so that he lies on his side rather than his back, her head shifting to his arm without her even opening her eyes. He tangles his free hand in her curls, and pulls her close, tucking her head under his chin, breathing in the soft scent of her hair.

Ever since he can remember, she's smelled the same, like jasmine, and it floats off of her in waves, making it difficult for him to think straight. Her mouth opens in a sudden yawn, and he freezes, afraid that he's woken her, but she stretches and settles further into the cradle of his arms and starts to breath softly again. She's so at peace when she sleeps, so different than the stone-hearted killer that she becomes the minute she opens her eyes. With anyone but him, that is.

He moves his hand down her back, watching her carefully for any signs of consciousness. His hand moves, almost of its own accord, up her shirt, feathering lightly across her soft back. He shudders to think what she'd do to him if she caught him like this, but he figures that she let him into her bed again, and fell asleep with him as her makeshift pillow again, so he leaves his hand there without much fear. His thumb traces the outline of her body. Her hipbone, so hard, with the skin stretched across it so soft. Up the dip of her waist, making her seem small and breakable. The swell of her breast is soft and warm, and as a friend he should stop, but as a man he is powerless to do so.

He remembers their spar earlier that day, the feel of lips on cheek, and the way he cupped her ass with his hands, and he moves his hand down to do so again. Her panties are lacy, and there aren't much of them, and his hand encounters mostly bare skin. He realizes that he's really in trouble if she wakes up then, so he moves his hand back up, but that only sends his thumb in direct contact with her waist and breast again, so he moves it back down, and for who knows how long, he lays there running his hand up and down her naked back, loving and fearing every single minute of it. Finally he moves his hand further down, cupping a round thigh and hitching it over his, and her knee automatically bends to accommodate his legs. She mumbles and sighs, and suddenly her eyes fly open. One arm is serving as her pillow, and the other hand is resting at the bend of her knee, but he counts himself lucky it wasn't somewhere a little higher.

He braces himself for the blow, for the wrath or the angry words, but what he doesn't expect is for her to whisper what she does.

"Do it again."

"What?"

"Rub my back again. It felt nice."

He does what she asks, moving his hand up to the small of her back and starting its circle again. She closes her eyes again, but apparently she isn't happy, because a moment later she's sitting up in bed and pulling her shirt over her head. He freezes, mouth dry, as he sees her naked in front of him, striped in the moonlight. Her hair is barely long enough to fall over her shoulders and cover her breasts. She rolls over to her stomach, and he realizes what she was getting at. He has access to her whole back now, without the fabric of her shirt getting in the way.

He resumes his massage, and soon enough she's asleep for real, because she rolls away from him and curls up in a ball. He hooks an arm around her stomach, carefully avoiding her chest region, and pulls her toward him, fitting her to the shape of his body.

Neither one of them is wearing a shirt now, and spooning her like this is dangerously intimate for his mental health, but he revels in the feeling of his bare skin against hers. His hand is brushing against her soft belly now, carefully staying in a safe zone, and he realizes that all of this, pinning her against the wall (multiple times) the almost kiss, and his totally inappropriate fondling of her body is all heading somewhere, a culmination of emotions, and whatever it is, it's going to be big.


	6. Revelation

She wakes up in his arms again, but this time everything's different. His chest is warm against her bare back, and she looks down to see his fingers interlaced with hers over her stomach. His breath is gentle on the top of her head, and their bodies fit together perfectly.

Her shirt is still on the floor from where she recklessly discarded it last night. Modesty has never been part of her life, but she had never been so blatant either, especially not with him. But his hand, the gentle pressure moving up and down her back, the shivers only obtained by tender human contact, were too good to pass up, and when she opened her eyes to tell him that, he froze, petrified, and she practically begged him to do it again. She almost wished she hadn't; he was much more careful once he knew she was awake and the affectionate, almost inappropriate caresses from before almost completely disappeared. He must have pulled her to him when she fell asleep. The sensation is so perfect she savors it for a moment before she yawns and stretches in his arms.

Her movement awakens him, and he freezes for a moment before realizing that she's not going to kill him. She feels his arms tighten around her, and he presses a kiss to her warm shoulder before burying his head in the crook of her neck. She shivers at the feel of his warm breath, and turns in his arms to face him.

He lifts his head to meet her gaze, faces inches apart, and her breath comes a little more sporadically. He smiles and greets her in their native language, and she returns the favor. She lays her head down again and absentmindedly runs her fingers down the planes of his chest, the muscles and valleys of his stomach until he shudders and something in his gaze makes her remove her hand. His gaze shifts lower, and suddenly she remembers just how naked she is, and hastily reaches for the covers to pull them back up over herself. He laughs softly.

"I never realized you were embarrassed to be seen naked."

She blushes when she replies, "with you it's different."

She doesn't want anybody else's hands on her; she doesn't want anybody else looking, even if it's awkward with him. She wouldn't have stripped with reckless abandon for anyone else, even though the two of them are just friends, and that invisible line between them was shattered last night.

She realizes with a jolt that it isn't attraction, it isn't lust or friendship, or anything else, it is love, pure and simple that draws her to him, and suddenly she drops the covers and wraps her arms around him, not missing the way his heartbeat speeds up at the feel of her bare chest against his. She nestles her face in his neck and breathes in deeply, relishing the smell of sweat and boy and desert, the smell of him, and she feels him weave a hand through her hair and inhale the scent of her as well.

He pulls her head back gently, looking confused.

"What is the matter?"

She laughs. "Today has brought many revelations."


	7. Together

He's still in her dreams tonight, but somehow everything has changed. She can't quite put her finger on it, but somehow things seem portentous, like something's about to happen. They're in an empty building, all alone, and they're heavily armed, which may seem like a normal day to the two of them, but suddenly there's the flash of light and the loud sound that mean a gunshot, and even thought no other people enter the room, they both drop instinctively to the floor. When she rolls over, relieved that you're both all right, she quickly realizes that that's not true. He's unnaturally still and the puddle his head rests in is a sickening crimson color. She cradles his face, and the liquid is sticky. When she puts her face in her hands and starts to sob, she feels it clinging to her, and she knows that even if she scrubs her face every day his blood will never wash off. She stumbles to her feet, blinded by blood and tears, but she can't find any trace of the shooter. When she opens the door, she realizes that she's in the middle of the desert, with nothing around her for miles, and with a sudden jolt she knows with horrifying certainty that she's all alone in the world.

She wakes up, sobbing into the bare skin of his chest. He's bleary and confused, and she can't even speak for her tears, and for a full five minutes all she can do is clutch him closer and convince herself that he's still alive.

He's more and more worried as the minutes drag on and she can't bring herself to speak to him, but finally she manages to stammer, "Yo-you-you're st-still alive."

He understands, and pulls her closer, murmuring in her ear, saying nothing and everything at the same time.

This time when she drifts off to sleep, he's holding her tightly, reassuringly, and this time when she dreams, she's not all alone, because they're together.


	8. Lullaby

The girl is smiling at him again, from across the park. She has big, dark glasses perched on top of her head of shiny blonde hair. Her sweater is tight in all the right places, and when she stands, her skirt doesn't cover all that it's supposed to.

As a man, he's supposed to find this woman attractive. Her outfit, hair, attitude, everything about her is calculated to catch his eye, and draw him in. As a man, he's supposed to flirt with her, take her home, and get her into bed. But as himself, as a person already with someone in his life (even if they're both in denial), somehow her blatant display only turns him away.

And then she comes over to him, hips swaying seductively as she sits herself on the bench beside him.

"Hi," she starts, in a voice that is feminine and perky, "I'm Vanessa. I noticed you didn't look like you are from around here… I could show you around if you wanted."

He smirks at the blatant invitation in her words. "Actually," he replies, "I'm here with a friend."

And as if called, suddenly his friend is striding down the path towards the park bench where he sits with Vanessa. She walks in the manner of a confident woman, especially one who has and can throw a knife with deadly precision at any given moment. His sunglasses still rest on the bridge of her nose, mirrored lenses betraying no emotion, and behind them the rest of her face remains impassive. She looks like a mythical character, a powerful warrior, a vengeful goddess, and he realizes that it's hard to breathe when he looks at her.

She rearranges her face into a smirk as she approaches the two of them. "Who's your friend?" she asks almost laughingly, as if sharing a private joke with him.

Vanessa stands and introduces herself, extending a hand to shake. His friend takes it, but pointedly refuses to give her own name.

She sits down on the bench beside him, too close for friends, but he realizes what she's playing at, and he slings an arm around her slender shoulders. When a man bothers her, or a woman gets in his way, or even just for a cover, he is her boyfriend, and they both know the cover so well that it is like slipping on a comfortable pair of shoes. She leans into his side, smirking up at Vanessa, who towers above the two of them.

"I had not realized that the two of you were acquainted," she remarks to Vanessa, who stammers out a reply, looking at him in desperation.

"I have a map," he tells her, "so as kind as your offer was, we won't need your services."

She nods slowly, the plural 'we' making an impact on her at last, smiles self consciously, and strolls away, embarrassment quickly forgotten as she sees another single male on a park bench.

"Who was she?" His friend asks pointedly, looking up at him from under her sunglasses, where she is still tucked in the crook of his arm.

"I do not know."

She laughs, delighted at the absurdity of it all. "I am glad I could save you," she finally says, leaning into his side.

She continues to gaze off into the park, peacefully observing the lush, green plant life, the people, the soft dappled shade, unaware that he is observing her.

It really doesn't help his mental state to think about her, soft, warm, and sleepy in his arms every night, but it continually happens, and he can't seem to ignore the feelings it gives him. She dreamt about him, and it wasn't a good dream. Even after she fell asleep again, he had stayed up, looking at her familiar face, made peaceful by sleep, and wondered what was haunting her.

"Are you alright?" He suddenly asks, startling her out of her reverie. She looks a little shocked, or worried, like something is wrong with him.

"Yes." She answers. "Why do you ask?"

"You seem haunted. Even more since we left. It should be getting better, now that we're out of the war zone."

She laughs a little ruefully, and tips her head to rest on his shoulder. "Everyone has ghosts. Ours are merely a little bigger than most people's."

"Why now?"

"I do not know. I thought you were dead; I really did for the longest time before I found out that you were actually living in America. That is what I dream about, that is what haunts me in my sleep, for even though it is not true, it so easily could have been."

He plants a soft kiss on the side of her head, and when she looks at him speculatively, he protests that he is keeping the cover.

She laughs, pretending he's not lying, and snuggles closer into his side. "The dreams are better since you have actually been here," she remarks, "It was only that one night." She smiles again and the next part is so soft that he barely hears her murmur it. "You have always been my lullaby."


	9. Reminder

**There were simply too many pronouns in this chapter to make this work without names... I hope they're to your satisfaction!**

She looks at him wrestling with the children on the grass and can't help but smile. They are young, too young, and they have lost a parent today, but in the way of children who are too young to understand, life goes on for them, and they probably won't notice anything is amiss until bedtime.

They are the children's official babysitters and unofficial bodyguards, watching them as Ziva, Leah's hostess, and Ziva's coworkers solve the murder of the children's mother. She doesn't know how long it will be until their father will come home from Iraq to care for them, and at the end of the day child services will come by, but for now they are evidence, and she has the double duty of protecting the children and the valuable DNA in the blood clinging to Grace's sweater, sitting in a Ziploc bag by the picnic table.

Grace is shrieking as he tickles her now, as her young brother, Zachary, watches and coos in delight at the happiness on his sister's face. Leah rushes over and scoops him off the ground before he is trampled by his rambunctious sister and the boy who is supposed to be mature. Samuel freezes as she bounces Zachary on her hip, shooting him a mock glare as he grins back, brushes the grass from his clothing and stands up, swinging Grace over his shoulder. The two of them and their precious burdens make their way to the picnic bench at the bottom of the grassy hill, and Leah sets out a snack as he readies the children to eat.

Grace plays quietly as Samuel carries on a one side conversation with Zachary, who coos every now and then in agreement. Grace is eating her animal crackers now, making each one walk along the table before she pops it in her mouth and chews vigorously. She pulls a giraffe and a lion out of the bag and makes them walk together, and Leah sits down beside her and asks her about her game.

"Wion." Grace informs her, shaking the lion in the air. "RARRRRRR!"

"Very good, Grace. The lion does roar."

"Giwaffe." She looks at Leah in confusion as she realizes that she doesn't have a sound to match with her animal.

Leah shrugs, and says, "the giraffe does not make a noise."

Grace nods slowly.

"Giwl," She says, motioning to the giraffe, "boy," at the lion.

She thrusts the giraffe in Leah's direction. "YOU!" she crows.

"That is me?" Grace nods gleefully. "Who is the lion?" Leah asks her. She points enthusiastically at Samuel, spoon feeding Zachary across the table.

"Day getting mawwied," Grace informs her, and leans their heads in to make them share a kiss.

"Why?"

"Day in wove. Just yike you!" she smiles innocently and forces the crackers into her mouth together as Leah stares at her in astonishment.

A three year old sensed something like that? Saw the two of them and made the connection that quickly? It takes a while for her to formulate her thoughts, and then she runs on autopilot, giving Grace juice, burping Zachary, watching Samuel play a half game of hide-and-seek with Grace.

Later that day he asks her what the matter is as they watch the children play a few feet away, and then Leah starts to laugh.

"We got married today," she informs him, relishing the astonished look on his face.

"Married? Why?"

"We are in love." He looks at her suspiciously, and she tells him the truth, that it was just a game invented by a creative, albeit observant, three year old. He laughs then, with her.

"She has an imagination," he says, "where did she get an idea like that?" Leah denies any knowledge, but her protests aren't as convincing as they should be.

Zachary starts to wail on his blanket, and Leah rushes over and holds him close, bouncing him gently as she sways back and forth. Zachary suddenly reaches up and grabs a handful of hair, but she doesn't have a hand to pry it out of Zachary's grip, and she looks at Samuel beseechingly. He grins and gently detaches the little monkey, taking him into his own arms.

"I know that she is pretty," he tells the infant, "but she looks better with hair. Do not pull it all out." Zachary gives a toothless grin and beats his tiny fists against his chest.

"You have an admirer," he teases Leah.

Grace comes rushing over and sits firmly on his foot, clinging to his leg as he tries to walk.

"You have a crush too," Leah reminds him as Grace sings "wion, wion, wion…" over and over.

"I am a lion?" He asks her, and she nods.

"Big and stwong." She says. She points imperiously at Leah. "Giwaffe. You pwetty."

"Giraffes are pretty?" He asks.

Grace nods again. "Pwetty, pwetty, pwetty…"

They are both worn out by the time Child Services comes later that evening; sad to see the children go but glad for a break.

"You are good with children," he remarks, "You will make a good parent someday." _Unlike your mother_, his silence seems to say.

"So are you. And so will you."

"I would be happy to marry you," he jokes, but somehow the humor is lost as he says, "Grace has very good taste."

Leah stares at him a moment, before grinning and adding cheekily, "yes she does. And if she does not claim you first, I will marry you."

"I am in high demand," he remarks, "Juliet, Vanessa, Grace…"

She punches him in the arm, a little harder than neccesary, and he winces.

"Do not worry," Samuel reminds her, "You will always come first."


	10. Opposites

He wakes up to the bright light shining against his eyelids, but even before he opens his eyes he knows that can't be right, because his internal clock is telling him it's the middle of the night (or morning, rather), and as soon as he opens his eyes, he knows he was right. The red letters of the alarm clock glow 2:36, and he wonders why anyone is up at this ungodly hour, before he rolls over in bed and finds his answer.

Her nose is buried in a thick book, Eyes darting rapidly back and forth as she reaches to turn the page. Her lip is caught between her teeth, and she is so enraptured by whatever story she is reading that she hasn't even noticed that he has been woken by the lamp she has turned on.

"What are you reading?" He mumbles blearily in Hebrew, since his mind is still to sleepy to properly translate to English.

She looks up, startled, at the sound of his voice, and closes her book with a snap. The cover has two people on it dressed in clothes that are probably from the seventeen or eighteen hundreds, a man and a woman holding hands, and he thinks it's probably one of her silly romances, but he can't make out the title, so he waits patiently to hear it before he mocks her.

"Emma." She turns the book to face him, and he can see the name written in old English script, along with the smaller name of the author.

He smiles ruefully. "I was hoping to mock you about the trashy romance novel, but now I can see that will be impossible. I can hardly make fun of you for reading a classic." He turns his back to the bright light and shuts his eyes again, but when she doesn't answer immediately, he turns back around and gives her another look.

She's still staring at him, but not as if she's angry, more like she's wondering what exactly he is.

"It is a classic, correct?" He ventures, "Because that lady, Jane Austen, she wrote that other one you like, did she not? Um…." He trails off as he searches for the answer to the unasked question. "The one with all of the 'P's' in the title…"

"Pride and Prejudice," She finishes, switching abruptly back to English. "Yes, she did write that one also. It is my favorite book."

She still is looking at him as if he walked out of the pages of the book she was just reading, top hat and all, and he looks down to make sure he hasn't turned orange while he slept.

"Should I have known that?" He asks. It is entirely plausible that she is angry at him for something, but he can't remember anything amiss the day before, so he doesn't think that is the case.

"No. I do not think anyone knows that," she dismisses him as she opens her book and resumes her reading.

"What is it about?" He asks, still trying to rectify the situation, whatever it is.

"A girl named Emma," she says, playfulness returning to her face as he rolls his eyes at her obvious answer.

In a quick flash of movement, he seizes the book from her grasp and searches for the plot summary, but it is neither on the back nor the inside cover, so he hands the novel back to her and looks pleadingly at her.

"She falls in love with her best friend," she says, "And I was merely thinking that the idea of falling in love with someone you have known for years, someone who has been there every day, and then all of a sudden, something changes in the way that you look at them… It is beautiful, is it not?"

Her eyes have gone soft in the golden lamplight, like she is thinking of someone special, and he feels slightly queasy at the thought of her thinking of someone else. _Else?_ No, thinking of someone at all. Because she is too young, she is not ready. _Right?_

"Leah," he starts cautiously, "Is there something you want to tell me? About someone?"

"Like who?" She asks him, her eyes changing back from molten emerald to plain old olive, "You mean am I romantically involved with someone? Because the answer is no. Not at the moment."

And then she closes her book again, shuts off the lamp, and within minutes she is breathing softly, leaving him sitting upright in bed in the dark, pondering her answer. _Not at the moment. _Does that mean she has someone in mind? A prospect? He lays down again, knowing that he won't fall asleep again, because her answer will aggravate him all night, while she slumbers like an innocent little lamb.

One of the things he has always envied about her is the ability she has to lose herself. In sleep, in a book, in music or a movie. She immerses herself so deeply in the other world that her problems from this one disappear for a while. Leah has always been the one to find solace in another universe, Samuel has always been the one to stew over events for days, rethink situations over and over and try to make something go differently. Leah gets so involved in someone else's universe that sometimes she loses her way in her own, Samuel buries himself so deeply in his own problems that he has trouble paying attention to anyone else's.

They are so opposite in many ways that it is easy for them to be themselves, and know that the other will take care of their weaknesses. She will be blunt, he unfailingly polite. He will make friends, she will seem standoffish. She will act her way out of any situation, he will find a logical way to get out. His feelings simmer beneath the surface, hers are easily readable on her face. But when she gets lost in another world, he draws her back to this one, and when he gets lost in himself, she lets him see the brightness of the world again. They are magnets, North and South coming together and sticking, changing each other's world, because they are perfect opposites.


	11. Bloodstain

"What the hell is this place?"

She is striding across the large, empty room, her voice echoing across the cavernous space. The concrete walls, covered with years of graffiti, the crumbling walls, the musty smell, they all speak of this place being abandoned, but the large box in the middle of the room speaks otherwise.

"That is a lot of explosives," she murmurs to herself as she approaches the sleeping bomb, "and how exactly did you know this was here?" She spins to face him, still standing in the doorway, looking on with concern.

"A friend."

"A friend that set a bomb in the middle of the capitol of The United States of America?" She asks him incredulously.

"Of course not. A friend who knew someone who did."

She snarls in frustration at his answer, and examines the bomb again, looking for the most likely way to diffuse it. "I would not know this 'friend', would I?" She asks coldly. Her question is clearly rhetorical.

"No," he answers anyway, "I met her before you got here."

His pronoun choice strikes her dead still, and she turns slowly to face him, with deadly eyes.

"Her name is Tanya," he explains in exasperation, "She is a very good fighter."

"Then why," she snarls, "did she not diffuse it herself, instead of sending me to get killed?"

"She is better with her fists than with a bomb."

Leah mumbles something under her breath that sounds suspiciously like she is calling Tanya something impolite, and asking why she can't do her own dirty work.

She approaches the bomb again, pulls at wires, and mumbles something under her breath, cutting him off with a feral growl when he asks if he can help.

Seeming totally unfazed, she pulls the knife from her waist, and deftly clips three wires; green, red, blue.

The beast is ticking now, making an ominous noise from its depths, but she remains unfazed as she cuts a final white wire and the noise stops, the bomb dead for good now.

"Next time," she shoots over her shoulder as she gathers her things and prepares to leave, "tell Tanya to get her own damn bomb squad."

He rolls his eyes at her retreating back, muttering under his breath in Hebrew as she stomps out of the warehouse, but she turns on her heel and stomps right back. He shuts up quickly.

"How exactly did you meet Tanya?" She asks, warily, saying her name like an expletive.

"Mutual friend."

"You just have all sorts of friends now, do you not?" Her sarcasm is a weak attempt to cover the hurt in her voice.

All he can see is a sheet of red, painted by her wild accusations and jealousies, and he know the next words are cruel as he says them, but he can't bring himself to care.

"Just because you do not have friends does not mean that I cannot."

She is shocked into stunned silence, standing, frozen, as he takes his turn at gathering his bag to leave, but a second later she has grabbed his jacket, spun him around, and leveled a hard punch right at his face.

He manages to dodge, and reflexively throws a punch of his own, grazing her shoulder and sending her spinning onto the floor.

The look on her face as she lays there, staring up at him, is heartbreaking. She started this, but he ended it, and he looks at his hand as if he didn't quite know how it has come to be clenched in such a perfect fist. When someone is trained as a killer, as an unbeatable weapon, they kill whether they want to or not. And they will always swing back.

She climbs off the floor slowly, not meeting his eyes, shrugging off his arm to help her up. He has hit her before, by accident, when she didn't move quickly enough during one of their childish, friendly spars, but he has never hated her enough to deliberately aim to hit before. In one brief, unalterable moment, a line has been crossed, trust has been shattered by both parties. Their attitudes towards each other will be scar tissue now; masquerading as skin, but never quite as perfect as it was before.

He dropped his backpack when she fell, and she bends down to pick up the scattered articles now, freezing when she sees the last item.

"You stole my book?" Her voice is quiet, filled with an anger that simmers slowly, but does not lash out.

He is silent, wanting to console her, not wanting to hear his own voice shatter the silence.

She pushes the backpack against his chest, hard, and he wordlessly grabs it.

She's not quite sure how it happened, later, but it bears a haunting resemblance to her dream.

A flash of light, a single gunshot, and then one, more, as he flings an arm around her, forcing her to the ground.

She throws the knife at her waist as she falls, and the horrible ruckus of the gun stops as the knife finds its target and the attacker hits the ground.

Samuel fell somewhere off to her right, she remembers, and quickly turns her head to find him.

She kneels over his unmoving body, quickly pulling off her jacket and pressing it against the origin of the bright crimson patch blooming over his chest. Wordlessly, clinically, she takes in his condition, and her surroundings, deciding what to do next. In America, they never leave anyone behind. In Israel, they leave as few behind as possible. Casualties are a fact of life, and she is not trained to believe in miracles. If he is still breathing, keeping the cover is the first priority. She will not have to explain to authorities why a seventeen year old girl was diffusing a giant bomb in the middle of Washington D.C.

Leaving him on the floor, she pushes into the bright light and traffic of the outside world, shrieking hysterically for someone to call an ambulance, they'd been mugged and her boyfriend was dying. She runs back into the building and reconsiders.

The body? Their mugger. She stabs him a few more times with the knife for a cover, and wraps his fingers around the hilt, leaving prints. The story? Self-defense, she stabbed him with his own knife after he shot her boyfriend and turned on her. The bomb? Nothing to be done there, if they ask, the young couple was so wrapped up in each other, looking for a private place, that they didn't even notice. The mugger was defending his creation.

She rushes across the vast space back towards Samuel, pressing the jacket to his wound once again, removing his backpack and her book from under his body and setting them aside. She hears the sirens outside, and quickly returns to the façade of distraught girlfriend, faking tears and huddling over his body.

The next minutes are a blur of paramedics, medical terms, and two gurneys, one for the dead gunman, one for the dying boy. They shuttle her out of the way when she tries to help, so eventually she stops trying. The cover of distraught lover is becoming easier and easier for her to keep as she realizes the reality of the situation, the fact that the only constant person who has ever been in her life is barely clinging to his own, and all she can do is stand in the corner and clutch the bloodstained copy of "Emma" to her chest.


	12. Believe

She doesn't believe in miracles.

She can't afford to. In her world, the pain and the loss are buried deep enough that eventually they are forgotten. The mission is accomplished, the survivors congratulated, and the victims forgotten. Her world is Darwin at work, survival of the fittest on hyper drive.

She won't be there when he wakes up. There is no use for her to sit, helpless, in a plastic chair, watching machines monitor the fragile proof of life. She can't leave his side. Every breath, every heartbeat is another reprieve; another second before the grief comes crashing down. Torn, she wanders to the garden courtyard, close enough to keep connected, far enough to keep safe from the emotional onslaught.

He was three when she met him the first time. Her mother was his father's boss, and somehow the chain of command leaped from work to life when Leah needed a babysitter. Rachel, his mother, took her in for two weeks, and somehow became the unofficial nanny when Leah's mother left town, more and more often as her child grew until she was almost never in Israel.

Rachel cared for the two toddlers with a baby on the way, all alone in their small apartment as her husband went off to protect her from afar. Samuel, upset at the addition that seemed to replace his father, called Leah a 'stupid girl', and she punched him in the nose, cementing their friendship for good.

His father died two years later in the line of duty, and Rachel transformed from the gentle, compassionate woman Leah had known almost all her life into a fierce matriarch, ready to guard whatever family she still possessed; five-year-old Samuel, his two-year-old sister, Ariella, and Leah, who Rachel considered as almost a second daughter.

Ariella had puzzled Leah at first. She was a perfectly happy baby, but the sounds that intrigued other infants had no affect on Ariella, and as often as Leah called her from across the room, she never answered. Rachel explained, as simply as possible, that Ariella couldn't hear what Leah could, that she had been born deaf.

They learned sign language as Ariella grew, and eventually her oddity didn't seem out of place. Her deafness was as much a part of her as the color of her hair, or the way she cocked her head when she was confused.

If she had heard, however, she might have escaped the bomb that killed her. They were walking in the market, Samuel, Leah, and Ariella, and Ariella crossed the street to get a better look at a doll she wanted for her eighth birthday. Leah heard the warnings being shouted, the subtle sounds of the bomb, but Ariella never did.

Sometimes, in her sleep, Leah still hears those warnings, the sound of the explosion and the sirens, can smell the smoke and burned fruit from the market stands, and the horrible, unforgettable smell of singed flesh and hair.

Rachel had died two months later, in a car accident, and Leah's mother, Hannah, took her daughter back in and became Samuel's legal guardian.

They had been completely independent since they were ten. Leah's mother, Hannah, had no interest in raising a child or any idea how to do so, and after she set the two up with a room each in her apartment, she promptly returned to her Middle-Eastern post to finish her mission. She left them an allowance every week, and from time to time, one of her coworkers stopped by to make sure they were still breathing.

Somewhere during the course of their childhood, they had picked up the customs of their land, the war-like lifestyle, and when Hannah saw this, she honed their skills even further. They became weapons, miniature soldiers, but they had not been children since they were young. The pain of his family's deaths, and her mother's abandonment festered inside them, fueling them to succeed at the war games, to fight and kill with precision, and to never, never lose. Life isn't a privilege, it's a prize, and to win it, you must fight with body and soul day after day.

She did not expect him to live now. Superstition did not live with her, or good luck. She hadn't cried when his sister or mother had died. She hadn't cried when her mother was killed. She promised herself she wouldn't cry now, no matter what happened, because weakness killed.

Still, when a nurse found her in the garden two hours later, staring unseeingly at the crimson spotted pages of her book and told her the news, Leah cried.


	13. Chance

Blackness.

He's swimming in a sea of blackness, no idea which way's up, and he can't breathe.

Words.

"You stole my book?" "Just because you do not have friends does not mean I cannot." "Get your own damn bomb squad."

Actions.

A punch, bright flashing lights, and then…. What? He can't even remember.

Emotions.

Anger, jealousy, guilt, and then overwhelming fear. Fear not for himself, but for someone else, someone more important, and the need to save them… Who? He can't even remember.

Sensations.

A sharp, clean smell. Cold. Uncomfortable pillow, tubes and needles. Where? He has no way of knowing.

A feminine voice, but not the one he wants.

He wants a voice? He realizes that suddenly, with a jolt that almost hurts. He wants a voice so badly he can hear it echoing in his head, but he can't match it with a face…

The other voice is saying something…

"Can you hear me?"

He opens his eyes slowly, adjusting to the bright light of the room.

"You're in a hospital, honey," the matronly woman coos. She must be a nurse, then. "I'm Rose. How're you feeling? Sore, huh?"

He is sore, he realizes, and he nods 'yes' slowly.

"I bet. Took us a while to dig the bullet out… but it missed everything important. You'll probably be able to use your arm regularly in a couple months of physical therapy!"

He should be happy at that news, he can tell by her tone of voice, but he's too exhausted to care.

Bullet… that means gun.

Rose senses his confusion, and pitches in, "You saved your girlfriend though, pulled her right out of the way. Bit of a banshee, isn't she? You should have seen that attacker… she stabbed him four times, more than necessary… probably scared though, wasn't she? She's here somewhere… didn't seem very concerned though, just silent. I'll bet she was in shock, poor thing. Paramedics checked her though, and they said she was fine…"

He tunes Rose out. He has a girlfriend? The voice? Her information only confuses him more.

If he saved her… no, too confusing.

"I told her you were up though," Rose was saying, "Burst into tears then, she did. Funny, with her acting so hard and all, and I tell her you live and all the sudden… Usually they cry when I have to tell them that bad news, not the good... didn't stop for a…"

Rose peters off again, but this time it's because a girl has come to stand in the doorway.

Her eyes are slightly red, but when she turns them on him they are a startling green against her pale face. Her dark hair hangs over her shoulders and down her back, in mussed curls, as if she's been active. Her stance is one of acute awareness, even as she leans against the door frame, and she's wearing a smirk that can't quite disguise the look of unparalleled relief on her face.

She is maddeningly familiar, and he's trying to remember so hard it hurts.

Rose fusses a few more moments, then leaves the room, reminding the girl visiting ends at six. She nods wordlessly, and turns her gaze back to him.

Then she speaks and everything clicks into place.

"Next time, I am scouting. You did a horrible job."

He breathes her name like a prayer.

She moves to sit in the plastic chair by his bed. "You did not forget me, did you?"

"Are you all right?" He remembers now, remembers everything. He pulled her out of the way in time, and she killed the shooter…

"Of course," she murmurs, "It is you who got shot for me. Again."

He smiles at her.

"That makes fifty-five," she remarks softly, looking at him. She senses his question, and finishes, "scars."

"You counted my scars?"

She seems almost shy as she nods.

He grins slyly. "You have thirty-eight."

She laughs then, and he is so glad to hear her, to see her vibrant and alive and utterly unafraid that he reaches for her hand with his good arm and holds it tightly.

They stare at each other for a long moment, reveling in each other.

"Life is so fragile. People seem so strong, but one moment, a wrong step or a bad decision…" The end of her sentence dangles in the air, as she tries to avoid thinking about the could have.

"I was angry," he says suddenly, "so angry. But not at you, at… I do not even know what. But I took it out on you."

"I was jealous," she admits, "but you are right. I do not have friends. That should not get in your way."

"You have me," he reminds her.

"I do not deserve you. I am so impatient, so hard to live with. I do not know why you even bother."

He tries to picture a world without her, but all he can see is a gaping hole. It would be like losing another sibling, a best friend, and a lifelong partner all rolled into one. He can't fathom the amount of pain it would cause.

"You have always been the one there," he remarks, "my father, my sister, my mother, they all left, even if they did not want to, and you have always been there. You held me up, and helped me move on. You let me cry."

"Still," she protests, "me, my mother, we were so dysfunctional. I am so dysfunctional. She turned you from a perfectly normal boy into a killer, a walking machine. Why would you associate yourself with that any longer?"

He squeezes her hand. "You are not your mother. You are similar sometimes, yes, but you are very different people. You have compassion, and a spark she never did. You allow yourself to feel, to live. That is what I admire about you, how alive you are. I would do anything to keep you that way."

"You already have," she reminds him.

They don't speak again, both knowing that anything else worth saying is better expressed with silence. When Rose comes to kick Leah out at six-o-clock, she finds them still holding hands, just staring at each other in a way others would find odd.

"Say good-bye to lover boy," she prompts, and Leah leans down and plants a surprised kiss right on his lips.

"Good-bye, lover boy," she says cloyingly, winking in his direction, and then she sashays out of his small room and down the hall, praising God for giving her a second chance with Samuel.


	14. Stargaze

When she looks at the stars, she feels a kind of sadness she can't quite explain.

That's where he finds her, curled up in herself on the concrete balcony of the small apartment long after he fell asleep, still tired from his ordeal the week before. It wasn't a sound that woke him, it was the lack thereof, and after three hours he went to investigate.

She's gazing up at the big dipper intently, tears rolling down her cheeks, but she doesn't make a move to stop their progress or disguise them, even as he lays his good hand on her shoulder.

It's a warm night, but she's shivering in her flimsy t-shirt, so he wraps the fleece blanket he had been carrying around her shoulders and sits down. He tucks her into his side, and she doesn't speak for twenty minutes, and when she does it's a mere whisper, as if she's afraid to break the sanctity of the night.

"Do you ever wonder if they laugh at us?"

He doesn't answer, even though he knows perfectly well what she's speaking of, and she breaks the silence again to explain herself.

"We know so little, in the scheme of things. If they do go to heaven, they must laugh at our ignorance. We think we are invincible, immortal, infallible. They know that is false, better than anyone. We are so stupid sometimes, all of the living. Only the dead can really be wise."

"You think too much," he sighs, but he gives her a soft squeeze and she smiles at the teasing in his words.

"I would like to live in the stars," she muses, "but I think it may be very dark. I would only want to live in the stars if there is light."

"Stars are light," he reminds her.

She laughs softly.

"They dance up there, I think. I have never seen my mother dance, but she is dancing up there. So is Rachel. And Ariella can hear…"

"It is a nice idea," he muses, "but there is no way for you to know until you go yourself. Hopefully that will be a long time in the future. But for now, you are here. With me."

She sighs, happily, tears drying on her face as she leans against him, sharing his warmth, reveling in the perfect silence.

The bright lights of the city make it impossible to stargaze well, but they try for hours, looking for pictures in the sky.

"They have seen so much," she remarks drowsily.

"Stars cannot see," he retorts.

"Maybe they can. Think of what they could know… from the dawn of time. They could answer all our questions. Maybe they know where the dinosaurs went…" She drifts off slowly, trying hard to finish her incoherent thought before sleep drags her under.

He is reluctant to wake her, but he can't carry her to bed with only one working arm, so he shakes her awake and walks her to bed, tucking the covers up tight around her small frame as she dozes off again.

He kisses her forehead and lies down beside her, careful not to wake her, and drifts off himself, dreaming of dancing in the stars.


End file.
